Seen It All and Done the Rest (18 page)

THIRTY-ONE

E
ver since Aretha and I had opened the door to his room a few days ago, I’d been thinking about the guy who was squatting at my house. There was something about the bleak orderliness of the room that moved me, but there was also something disturbing about it. What was the deal on all those books? Either this guy could be somebody whose life had taken a terribly wrong turn that he was trying to correct, or he could be another Unabomber. I dropped Zora at work so I could borrow her car to go pick up some cleaning supplies and drove straight to the duplex. Morning seemed a safer time to return to the scene of our earlier exchange, and somehow I knew it would go better if I came alone. When I turned up into the yard, he was sitting on the back steps smoking a cigarette. He looked in my direction, frowned, and stood up.

I turned off the ignition, hoping I wasn’t crazy for coming up here all alone to talk to a homeless stranger. I stepped out of the car, but left the door open just in case.

“Good morning,” I said, trying to sound like this was an ordinary exchange between new neighbors. “I’m Josephine Evans. I own this place.”

“You think I forgot who you are that fast?” he said.

“I didn’t remember if I said my name.”

“Well, now you’ve said it.”

I cleared my throat. “I don’t think you said yours.”

He looked annoyed. “Is this a social call or are you here to put me out?”

“Nobody’s putting anybody out,” I said quickly, ignoring the issue of whether this was a social call. “But I’m going to clean up the place so…so…I wanted to…let you know.” Was I going to ask his permission?

He just looked at me for a minute. “Well, it’s about time.”

I took that to be an affirmation of my plans.

“And thank you for…keeping an eye on things.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“But I can still thank you, can’t I?”

He looked at me and pointed toward Wiley Street. “You see that little white house there, about midway down the block?”

From where we were standing on top of the hill, we could see most of Wiley Street below us.”

“The one with the flowers out front?”

“I see it,” I said.

The street had a few houses that were well kept and cheerful, but most of the yards were as overgrown as this one and the homes looked in need of some serious repairs and a new coat of paint.

“That’s my mother’s house,” he said. “She’s seventy-three years old and she lives alone. Last year, she got broken into twice. Both the guys who did it were living up here in your house. Just sitting up here watching her come and go. Deciding when to bust in.”

He looked at me disapprovingly.

“Why didn’t she call the police?”

“She did,” he said. “They ran those two out, boarded the place up, and nothing happened for a couple of weeks. Then the police got busy someplace else, the robbers came back, broke in on Miss Mance across the street and Miss Thomas next door, and then back to my mother’s house to get whatever the first two hadn’t taken.”

No wonder he was a little pissed off. What was a question of property to me was a question of his mother’s safety to him. “I thought you said the police boarded up the place. How did they get in?”

He looked at me and shook his head slightly as if that was the dumbest question he’d heard all day. “It’s not hard to get in when nobody’s watching. That’s why I started staying here. To make sure they didn’t come back.”

I didn’t know whether he was telling the truth or just giving me a creative excuse for trespassing, but it sounded plausible, except for one small detail.

“Does your mother know you’re staying up here?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve had some problems with drugs,” he said. “She had to put me out.”

He said it very matter-of-factly, but I knew it was never so simple for a mother to throw her child to the wolves, no matter what he had done. I remembered one disastrous visit when my son came to spend some time with me after Jasmine had left and told him she didn’t want to see him again until he sobered up. He alternated between being maudlin and full of self-pity and being angry and full of accusations. My maternal guilt translated into a series of excuses for his bad behavior until the night he stumbled in late to a dinner party I had organized in his honor, drunk and disorderly to the point where Howard offered to throw his ass into the canal if I’d just give the word, but I couldn’t. He was still my baby, and even when everybody else saw only a raging asshole, I saw the little boy who used to beg me to read him one more bedtime story or push him just a little higher on the swings in Central Park.

I hoped what I was getting ready to do was not just another attack of maternal guilt, but I’d come this far trusting my instincts. This was no time to start second-guessing.

“How are you doing now?”

“I’m clean.”

“How long?”

“Four months.” He hesitated. “And twelve days.”

“Good,” I said. “Then we can do business.”

He raised his eyebrows. “What kind of business do you think I have with you?”

“You’re living in my house. You want to keep living in my house, right?”

Even a righteously indignant squatter knows the question of sleeping indoors or outdoors is always serious business worthy of discussion.

“Yeah, so?”

“So this place is a mess,” I said. “It’s going to take a lot of work to fix it up right. I need a crew. You interested?”

“A cleaning crew?” He sounded like the idea was beneath him.

“An everything crew.”

“Well, the place sure could use a coat of paint.”

I wanted to say,
Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know?

“Well, here’s what I propose. You work on my crew and you can keep staying here until we finish the project.”

“Then what?”

“After that, I’m going to put the place on the market, so you’ll have to find some other place to stay.”

“What are you paying?”

“I’m paying rent.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that he would turn me down. It seemed like the most humane way to deal with a bad situation. I didn’t want to put him back out on the street, and the truth was, I did need a crew. “And fifty dollars a week.”

He ran his hand over his beard and tugged it as if considering the question.

“How long?”

“Two months,” I said. “Maybe three.”

“Say three,” he said. “That way I can make plans.”

“It’s a deal,” I said. “But I need to ask you one more question.”

He was instantly wary. “What’s that?”

“What’s your name?”

“Victor. Victor Causey.”

“All right, Mr. Causey,” I said. “Welcome to the team.”

THIRTY-TWO

P
ackages from Howard were always cause for celebration. I met the man from UPS pulling up in front of the house with one for me and one for Zora. I propped hers on the front table so it would be the first thing she saw when she got home and sat down in the front window with my own treasure. Inside was another box, tied with a silver ribbon, and an ivory-colored envelope sealed with a real red lipstick kiss. Howard was famous for sending all his most personal correspondence adorned with a smooch.

“Ma chérie,”
he had written in lovely violet ink just to make me smile, which it did. “I know the enclosed is extravagant, but what the hell? I saw it and couldn’t resist. Wear it someplace they don’t expect you to and cause a scene. Miss you more than words can say, as do your many fans. Hold yourself in readiness for a triumphant return. In the meantime, wear this one in good health. Yours in fabulousity, H.”

I put the note aside and opened the box. There in a nest of tissue paper was a bright red kimono with long, richly embroidered sleeves. The silk was so light that it felt weightless when I slipped my arms in and went to take a look in the hall mirror. It fit perfectly, the ankle length not long enough to stumble over, but wide enough to swirl a little when you walked. The color was so rich and vibrant that it made you want to touch it to see if it generated warmth or just light. This truly was a robe fit for a queen, Amazon or otherwise, and I loved it just like Howard knew I would. Not that I had anyplace to wear it. I’d been spending my days at Home Depot, trying to get the best deals on the supplies we’d need next week when Zora was finally free and we could get started on the house. I smiled at my reflection, wondering what the folks in the paint department would say if I swept in tomorrow wearing this.

I was about to slip it off and put it back in the box when I saw Zora coming up the front walk, so I hurried over to beat her to the door, swung it open, and struck my best red-carpet pose for her. She laughed out loud and applauded as she took the stairs two at a time and hugged me gently, like she didn’t want to damage my outfit.

“That’s beautiful! You’re beautiful! Where are you going?”

“I’ve been where I’m going,” I said. “Howard sent it to me.”

“I’m jealous,” she said.

“Don’t be. There’s a package for you, too!”

“Hooray!”

She dashed inside, dropped her backpack, and opened the box with her name on it. Her letter was sealed with a kiss, too. She read it to me out loud. “Dear Lil’ Bit, I think if Dorothy had had these, she would have simply kicked that witch’s green ass and headed home a better woman for it. Enjoy! Love you madly, H.”

Inside Zora’s box was a pair of high-heeled, impossibly pointy-toed ankle boots in the softest red leather. She kicked off her Crocs and slipped them on immediately, smiling with pleasure at her suddenly stylish feet. “Only Howard would send me red shoes! I love them!”

“We look so fabulous, it’s a shame we don’t have anyplace to go,” I said. “This neighborhood has got to develop some decent nightlife.”

“Where would you go if you were back in Amsterdam?” she asked, leaning back on the couch, admiring her new red shoes and my flaming kimono.

“In this?” I said. “Actually, in this, I would probably have people in. I would make Howard fix something wonderful to eat and I’d put on music and tell people to come at midnight after their shows were over so they’d all be keyed up from performing and bring that energy with them. I’d invite the neighbors so they wouldn’t be mad about the noise and encourage loud laughter, tall tales, and passionate kissing in the coatroom.”

I twirled around for her amusement and my own. “I’d serve too much champagne and make everybody walk home or spend the night, and in the morning, we’d take our coffee out on the terrace and watch the canal boats go by, and everyone would say, ‘My god, Josephine, where did you get that fabulous kimono?’ And I’d say, ‘Howard found it’ and he would say he knew it was extravagant, but he couldn’t resist.” I plopped down next to her on the couch. “And there you have it. A day in the life of Josephine Evans, superstar. Well, the former life, I guess.”

“Your life is like the best telenovela in the world,” she said, grinning at my impromptu performance.

“A soap opera?” I rolled my eyes. “I was thinking more along the lines of—”

Before I could finish that thought, Zora sat straight up. “Oh, my God!” she said. “Oh, my God!”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong! It’s perfect! It’s absolutely perfect!”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s you,” she said. “Don’t you see? It’s you!”

“It’s me what?”

“It’s your story that makes our place special. The fact that it’s you!”

“Me?”

“Don’t say it like that, Mafeenie. You’re a star.”

“Not over here, I’m not. Over here I’m just another unemployed actress.”

She looked at me and frowned. “Well, all of that is about to change. You’re going to be the shero of your own story.”

I groaned. “Shero? You’re not going to start talking like a feminist, are you?”

“I am a feminist, besides you’re not unemployed. You’re engaged in an epic battle between good and evil on a conveniently human scale. A struggle between the forces of light and the forces of darkness.”

She was getting a little carried away. “All that because I want to clean up one little house and sell it to the highest bidder?”

“No, Mafeenie, all that because you refuse to let your mother’s parting gift to you fall victim to the horrors of urban blight. Because you left your glamorous life in Europe to reclaim your granddaughter’s inheritance and bring back beauty to this one small corner on a street named for an American hero.”

At first I thought she was just goofing around, but the longer she talked, the more I began to see that this really was a terrific story.

“That sounds wonderful,” I said, admiring her ability to find the coherent thread in the midst of the messiness. “Go on.”

“We’ll document the whole process on your YouTube site.”

“What YouTube site?”

“The one I’m going to post for us,” she said. “The one that is going to begin with you and Aretha walking around, talking about mildew and rodent droppings and all that other gross stuff.”

“Great opening,” I said.

“It ends with you talking about Gram’s roses. About how she used to make you water them and how bad it would make her feel to see it today.”

“That’s where it ends?”

“Just that segment, Mafeenie. That’s just the first one to show them what a big ugly job is confronting you.”

“Then what?”

“Then we let them see you take it on, whittle it down to size, and emerge victorious.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely. It’s perfect. All you have to do is be yourself. I’ll take care of everything. I can see it now:
Actress Takes on Greatest Role, Comes Back to Rescue Childhood Home.
”

“That’s true!”

“I know it is! You don’t think I’d ask you to lie, do you?”

“You better not.”

“I won’t,” she said, rushing ahead to her next idea. “How about that’s what we’ll call it.
Rescue on Martin Luther King: One Woman’s Story.”

I groaned again. “It sounds so melodramatic. Like a movie of the week.”

“No, Mafeenie, like a reality show.” She said that like it was a positive thing.

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

“It’s a great idea,” she said. “You said we needed a mermaid. Now we have one.
You!
”

“And what exactly do you want me to do?”

She leaned over and took my hand. “Tell me the story of this moment as we’re walking through it. Talk about whatever’s on your mind, just like you did about the roses. Just like you did about the party you’d throw for your friends.”

I was sure my expression betrayed my doubts.

“Sometimes I’ll ask you questions.”

That was not particularly comforting. “Questions about what?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. The house. What you’re thinking about. What it feels like to be back here after being gone for so long.”

“And this is going to help us how?”

“Because we’ll be building a story. We won’t even talk about selling the house yet. We’ll just talk about fixing it up because it’s the right thing to do.”

“That’s true.”

“It’s all going to be true, Mafeenie. This is your real life.”

She was right. The only thing that could make it a lie was me.

“By the time we finish, we’ll have more buyers than we know what to do with.”

“I’m not used to talking about myself,” I said, almost convinced but not quite.

She grinned at me. “You’re always talking about yourself.”

I grinned back. “You know too much.”

“No way,” she said. “My grandma said that’s not possible.”